


Strategic Hedonist

by desfinado



Category: Naruto
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-10
Updated: 2008-12-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:04:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6799444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desfinado/pseuds/desfinado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shikamaru resents the reputation he's earned that he's too lazy for sex. On the contrary, he is quite calculating about getting what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strategic Hedonist

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration: xHidaka's [sexy Shikamaru](http://yaoi.y-gallery.net/view/375501) and other Shika/Kiba work.
> 
> _Hedonism_ : behavior motivated by the desire for pleasure and the avoidance of pain.

Shikamaru resented his reputation sometimes.

Not that it really concerned him too much. He was more interested in being himself.

But this idea that some of his peers had, that he heard most often in jokes around the table when out for barbeque or whispered laughs amongst those friends less close to him… this idea that because he was partial to taking life easy, he was too lazy for sex. Shikamaru resented this.

Now Shikamaru, while a strategist above all else, also happened to be a bit of a hedonist. If everything in life was measured and balanced in his mind, it followed that he tended towards the path that lent him the most gratification. It just so happened that his definition of “gratification” tended towards being left alone (or in good company), watching the clouds or playing shougi. This didn’t mean he wasn’t still being strategic—no, Shikamaru thought, this meant he was adept at strategizing his way into exactly what he wanted.

The first had been a girl in the academy. At eleven, she had been loud and self-assured as many budding kunoichi were. She had decided she had a crush on Shikamaru and had marched up to him, girlfriends in tow, to ask him out. While not interested in the least, Shikamaru understood the gravity of the situation—the gravity of his first kiss. It was all his friends talked about, all _any_ guys talked about at that age. Shikamaru understood it as a necessary part of his transition to an adult. So he understood that this girl was going to provide him with that opportunity. 

After that kiss, Shikamaru wasn’t convinced that it was all it was cracked up to be. At that age, having a _girlfriend_ was an embarrassing thing and being so young, she wasn’t interested in anything more than the status of a relationship anyway. It was over within a month.

Then Temari. By the third time they met, under circumstances of a reformed alliance with Suna, she made it perfectly well known to Shikamaru that she was interested. Well, losing his virginity was an important part of growing up. And a part of him, the part that drifted in and out of his mind in the early hours of the morning, the part that relished the slow glide of his wet fingers over himself and the coiling release against rough wool blankets, suggested that this opportunity might actually be enjoyable.

Temari knew what she was doing, and it was perfect for Shikamaru. He was absolutely comfortable relinquishing control. She didn’t want or need much preamble—she gave him pointed looks across the missions desk table and Shikamaru understood well enough what they meant. He was casual but careful to show up in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. She kissed him sometimes, but mostly she just liked to ride him. Sometimes she would pull his sweaty palms away from crumpled sheets and guide his fingers to her body to make herself feel good, and sometimes Shikamaru would move his own fingers to the base of her neck as she took him in her mouth. He took his place propped up against the headboard, reclined on the couch, or leaning back against the wall, pants around his thighs. Yes, Shikamaru knew exactly what to do to let Temari do all the work.

After a while her guidance began to take him to a place he didn’t want to go. Spending the night. His arm being pulled across her body to spoon along her back. _Kissing_. Long, slow, hours _just kissing_. Shikamaru was a strategist and hedonist. He understood quickly when the balance of what he was putting into something began to tip too far away from what he was getting out of it. Unsurprisingly, he was just at good as ignoring Temari’s subsequent pointed looks and invitations as he was at taking them. He was ready to move on.

And moving on proved much easier than he thought. Being a chuunin granted so many possibilities to relinquish control.

When he taught at the academy, Shikamaru understood the significance of arriving early and staying late to receive children from and release them to their parents. Parents would linger after their children ran off to join the others, asking Shikamaru about how their kids took to the weapons, the taijutsu, or the tests. Sometimes, mothers would ask him about his own years in the academy, fascinated by his reputation as a genius and his young promotion. Perhaps seeing in Shikamaru their dreams for their children, their hope for the future, or their own lost youth, mothers would ask him discreetly about private tutoring and home consultations. They would leave him with boxes of sweets, home addresses scrawled on the bottom of the lid.

Shikamaru indulged his own tastes only, because he found these women were never in short supply. They took what they wanted and Shikamaru learned to listen for the soft patter of children’s feet in the hall or the jingle of a husband’s keys in the front door. He relinquished control: he let them do all the things their husbands never let them do, let his clothes fall to the floor and laid out naked on the bed to let them see exactly what they wanted from him: his youth. His strength.

This was how Shikamaru learned another way to get what he wanted without doing the work: he learned how to give a show. He learned how to imagine eyes on his back as he bent to pull off his shoes, flak jacket riding up to display a smooth expanse of skin at his lower spine. He learned how to lift his shirt up and over his head, fingers hooking into the elastic of his hairband on the way so that as his clothes pooled at his feet, his hair would fall down around his face. He learned how to push himself backwards across a futon, unfastening his pants, button by button until his back hit the headboard. These things he learned quickly and easily, as it took little effort to notice what these women wanted. For Shikamaru, giving them these simple things was such a small price to pay for what they gave him wantonly, uninhibitedly, and fully. Hedonism at its best. Shikamaru enjoyed these women especially for the fact that they would never expect him to stay the night or give him those long, slow kisses.

Working in the Hokage’s office, Shikamaru was surrounding by coworkers at least five years his superior, whose lives revolved around doing work, complaining about work, going to the bar and getting laid. Shikamaru had always been interested in being an adult—no more coddling, no more condescension, just respect. He enjoyed the respect that the other chuunin gave him. Kotetsu and Izumo made a show of taking him ‘under their wing,’ telling him how and where to cut corners in the Hokage’s office, telling him their jokes, inviting him out. Shikamaru worked out how alcohol fit into his equation of giving and taking. As far as he could tell, it was never worth giving up his awareness and sensibility just to laugh too loudly, like Kotetsu when he shared embarrassing stories of his teenage years, or gain false confidence, like Izumo’s wandering hands that lingered on Kotetsu’s shoulders or slid inside his thigh when he leaned into the table to talk.

Shikamaru understood the things that threatened a strategist. Being drunk was certainly one of them. But working at the Hokage’s office, Shikamaru did learn that _other people_ being drunk didn’t necessarily threaten a strategist; sometimes, it seemed to work quite well for him. It worked in the way that Shizune, on a rare night that she indulged in sake with Tsunade, eyed Shikamaru very obviously from under her lashes, leaning against him for support on the way out of the door, asking for assistance walking home. It worked in the way that rounds of beer brought Anko’s foot up the inside of Shikamaru’s calf under the table and flat against the crotch of his pants, catching his eye to mouth ‘bathroom’ before she disappeared into the rear of the bar. Yes, alcohol could be of great benefit for Shikamaru, he decided. He just didn’t want to be the one using it.

Working at the Hokage’s office didn’t just teach him about alcohol, however. Shikamaru learned about a different world—an adult world. He learned about poker and cigars, and the sarcasm, punches and sexual innuendo that comprised the world of 20-something shinobi. He let Kotetsu and Izumo bring him out to apartments that were a far cry from his family’s home, lewd images of women on the walls, more sake on the shelves than food, and bathroom cupboards stocked with condoms. Shikamaru learned about the concept of ‘keeping score’—the way in which Genma would notch his doorframe with a kunai for every fuck, the way in which Raidou earned twice as much for sleeping with sisters. Shikamaru didn’t share his own score, but he calculated it carefully in his head. He really didn’t think there was much to gain from anyone knowing, when part of his desire to be an adult was about wanting respect.

After one night of poker when everyone had left but Kotetsu and Izumo, as it was their apartment, Shikamaru learned that the virginity he thought he had lost at fourteen was still, in one way, with him. He learned this because he was sandwiched by the two chuunin on the couch, and barraged with questions about his own ‘score.’ He finally relinquished a number that made Izumo’s one eye widen visibly as Kotetsu let out a low whistle. Shikamaru, however, didn’t have an answer for Kotetsu’s next question: how many of those were guys?

No, Shikamaru had not thought at all about still being a virgin in that particular way. But Kotetsu let him know that he _should_ be worried about it—in fact, it would be downright _embarrassing_ to be a virgin at Shikamaru’s age; no, he’d have to help Shikamaru do something about that. Shikamaru turned to his other side, where Izumo’s pink tongue was poking out between his lips, eyebrows raised.

Shikamaru was a strategist and a hedonist. He understood this balance well enough—two people were willing and ready to give to him.

Shikamaru relinquished control.

Sitting on that couch, navy blue shirt shoved up to his armpits, bare legs spread, Shikamaru finally lost his _other_ virginity. At that moment, with Kotetsu kneeling on the floor in front of him, ramming his prostate, holding those spread thighs steady while Izumo, squatting over him, impaled himself on Shikamaru’s cock—that was the moment that Shikamaru realized you could relinquish control not only when fucking someone else, but also when being fucked. His arms reached behind his head as sweaty fingers grappled for purchase on the back of the couch every time that spot inside of him was hit, sending lightning heat up his spine. Shikamaru’s heavy-lidded eyes never left his own cock as it appeared and disappeared into that impossibly tight heat, mouth open and jaw set in resolve to keep from coming, just to make it last. One. Minute. Longer. His orgasm was fierce and he curled in on himself reflexively, as if sucker punched in the gut, forehead making forceful contact with Izumo’s sternum while hands simultaneously death-gripped the older chuunin’s sides. Shikamaru was that much more of an adult, now.

Once he had learned these things from the chuunin at the Hokage’s Office, Shikamaru was quite conscious about letting his tastes stray to both genders. There were always less men offering themselves to him, of course—Shikamaru wasn’t sure if there just weren’t that many men who were so inclined in the village, or if perhaps men had too much to risk by turning inviting eyes on a chuunin-level ninja. Either way, he took what was available to him, and learned from Kotetsu and Izumo to always be open to trying new things. If he was to be a good strategist and a good hedonist, he shouldn’t let things pass him by.

It was the summertime and Shikamaru had been fucking Hana for a few weeks. She had been at a bar with some of her older kunoichi friends, and had approached Shikamaru at the table where he sat with Shizune and Izumo, inviting him outside for a smoke. As Kiba’s older sister, she had known Shikamaru since he was young, and he had always been a bit intimidated by her. Her power, her strength, her confrontational personality and her sheer size (standing mere inches taller than Shikamaru now, but it was more like feet when he was in the academy) had all made her something a bit frightening but simultaneously untouchable to him. Shikamaru felt a slight thrill in the subtle interest she seemed to have in him, and he went home with her that night. She was a fantastic fuck, and seemed to love being in control just as much as Shikamaru loved giving it over to her. She took to tying his wrists, crossed one over the other above his head, to the frame of her bed before she rode him.

Shikamaru, while a friend of Kiba’s, rarely saw him outside gatherings of many friends. Suddenly he was running into him in the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway... Their exchanges were the exact opposite of what Shikamaru would have anticipated, considering the reason why he was there in his friend’s house—no, Kiba seemed to have no problem with the knowledge that Shikamaru was fucking his sister. Instead he was constantly inviting Shikamaru to stay for meals, sitting cross-legged on their porch while they remembered the academy and missions, watching clouds shift in the sky, or showing Shikamaru new scrolls—flopping down on his stomach on his messy bed to spread them out across the floor as he read them to Shikamaru, who leaned against the bed frame and caught the scrolls that snapped shut and tried to roll away.

Shikamaru was quite happy to spend time in the Inuzuka home; if it had been Temari, he would have been acutely aware of the signals his constant presence might be sending her about being in a _relationship._ But Hana wasn’t interested in one and was quite clear about it, sometimes bringing other guys home on late nights when Shikamaru and Kiba were sorting new weapons on the living room floor, greeting the boys with waves or winks before retreating to her room. It didn’t bother Shikamaru at all, although once in a while he would lift his eyes at their retreating backs and find his gaze lingering on Hana’s partner for the night—wondering if it would feel good to be between those two as he had been with Kotetsu and Izumo, a hard cock in his ass while his own was buried to the hilt in wet heat. But it was too complicated to make that move when he was there with Kiba; it would be much too obvious what he was doing.

Shikamaru understood well how things worked between him and Hana. For a hedonist such as himself, he would enjoy it until it stopped being worth it for him, and then he’d leave. No problems.

One lazy week in August with few missions and fewer office duties, Shikamaru was asleep in Hana’s bed, something that happened once in a while but thankfully without the kissing or cuddling that made him so uncomfortable. Usually the best part about spending the night, he found, was morning sex. The kind where his mind was still in that asleep-awake world, eyes too heavy to open, limbs made fluid and soft with sleep, and imagination taking over as if experiencing a highly sensory dream.

It was still dark out that morning when Shikamaru slowly became aware of warm hands rubbing his thighs and spreading his legs slightly under the heavy, downy comforter of Hana’s bed. Hot breath was now on his bared cock, semi-hard from sleep and growing. Shikamaru smiled into the darkness, glad that she remembered how much he enjoyed waking up this way. He had no real desire to open his eyes, feeling warm and content, sure that all he would see would be a shape under the blankets anyway, and this way he was able to focus all his being on just _feeling._ Kisses were raining down lightly all over his pelvis, first his belly button, then the twin protrusions of his hipbones, then down the diagonal line of defined muscle towards his cock. A tongue explored him thoroughly for at least a full five minutes, just licking and tasting the exposed side of his length.

Eventually a palm closed around the base of his cock to hold it away from his stomach and the tongue explored the other side, until warmth was spreading through his limbs to his toes and fingers and Shikamaru was pulling in slow, deep breaths of contentment. Finally— _finally—_ there were lips on his head, and he was surrounded by heat. His mouth parted, a puff of air audibly passing through as he was sucked slowly but methodically in time to the hand pumping at his base. Shikamaru felt a finger from the other hand slide up the side of his shaft, sharing the space with his cock in that warm wet mouth for a moment before disappearing. Before he had time to wonder what that was about, an elbow and a shoulder pushed against his inner thighs to simultaneously part his legs and tilt his pelvis and there was a finger pushing _inside him_.

Shikamaru’s breath hitched and his hands shot under the blankets to grab onto hair—he wasn’t sure yet whether with intent to push the head away or hold it in place—but just as the tips of his fingers grazed soft hair, the hand and mouth left his cock and swatted them away. Shikamaru tried to reach out once more when the finger inside him crooked and his arms fell at his sides as he groaned out into the dark stillness of the bedroom, the noise seeming obscenely loud to him at such a quiet hour and surrounded only by soft noises of fabric and skin. His mind was reeling at the invasion, something he had only ever felt the few times he had been with men.

By the second finger, Shikamaru was unable to lay still, eyes shut to focus on the sensations below his waist. His hands were travelling over his own body almost on their own, sliding up his chest to ghost over nipples, into the hollow of his throat and up to splay fingers out across the underside of his jaw, tilting his head back, rubbing up over his face and dragging back down over closed eyelids, fingertips lingering on his bottom lip and slipping into the warm cavern of his own mouth.

By the third finger, Shikamaru’s breath was littered with small noises, every few exhalations carrying with them a small moan, and he began to feel a dread sneak up on him—as good as this felt, if this was Hana, fingers were all it was going to be. Shikamaru wondered if he should be more concerned about this feeling he had—this feeling of being _empty_ , of wanting to be _filled_ , more-more-oh-god-more until he felt like bursting, like he could feel every vein and ridge of a hard cock sliding inside him. But the imagery he conjured up combined with the fingers stretching and exploring him and the warm mouth and hand on his cock brought Shikamaru to the edge quickly and he let out a single, punctuated— _Un_ —into the quiet darkness of the room as he emptied himself into that wet mouth.

Fingers slid from him and he felt a warm cheek come to rest on his inner thigh, a surprisingly quick breath puffing out across his skin, suggesting that he wasn’t the only one who was excited by that. Shikamaru reached out for hair once more, to bring Hana up for her own orgasm, but he was swatted away again and the body under the covers settled in the open V of his legs, smooth back pressed up against the inside of one leg, cheek on his opposite thigh and toes brushing his ankle. Shikamaru accepted it as an invitation to sleep, and fell back into the dark, alluring warmth of dreams.   

The following morning, Shikamaru woke to the bedroom door closing shut behind her as Hana walked into the room, fully dressed. He sat up quickly, knowing that part of what made their arrangement work was their mutual recognition of the others’ space. Once she was out of bed and doing something else, it was Shikamaru’s time to do the same. As he tossed the thick comforter aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed, bending to retrieve his clothing from the floor, Hana dropped her weapons pouch onto the bed and began stocking it.

She apologized as she picked up a shuriken and turned it in the light to check for any nicks on the fine edges, telling Shikamaru that she had been called out on a mission for the night and was now only returning to restock and eat before departing again. —There’s rice on the stove—she  added as she pulled out a few lengths of wire and rolled them up tightly. Shikamaru stilled, about to pull his pants up over his bare ass. He didn’t turn to look at her as he asked—If you weren’t here last night, then who—and he cut himself off, suddenly aware it could have been a dream. When Shikamaru had his pants fastened he turned to face Hana and she had a confused look on her face. When she asked him what happened, he assured her it was nothing and she nodded slowly, cryptically before turning back to her weapons.

Shikamaru pulled the door open and padded barefoot downstairs, absentmindedly buttoning up the loose brown shirt he had pulled on as he went. His mind was reeling, thinking now that it had been too real to be a dream. He was beginning to wonder if Hana was trying to tell him that he wasn’t allowed to talk about her touching him _there_ , he had to pretend it didn’t happen—or whether, somehow… it hadn’t been her?

Shikamaru nodded at Kiba who sat at the kitchen table, not lifting his eyes from the floor as he prepared a bowl of rice and sat down. They ate in silence until Hana came in to grab some food to take with her, and she told Shikamaru she’d be gone for a few weeks. After a few more moments of silence, Shikamaru looked up when Kiba asked Hana what she was she was staring at. She was giving her brother a deep look, searching his face. She cocked her head suddenly, squinting at him as she finally smiled, then ruffled his hair and left, throwing a goodbye over her shoulder. Kiba laughed at her behaviour and went on eating. Shikamaru left soon after washing his bowl.

A week later, Shikamaru ran into Kiba at the market and was asked if he wanted to come over to make food—Kiba was hopeless with his sister gone and his parents also away on missions. Shikamaru laughed and agreed, and when he arrived later that evening he was surprised to find two cups on the low living room table in that familiar, distinct shape that could only mean sake. They sat out on the porch and watched the fiery colours of the sunset cast the sky into different hues of orange and blue as Kiba poured them both a drink.

Shikamaru was surprised to find this was a new situation for him—friends his own age didn’t seem to drink often, or at least not in his company. It reminded him of cigar-smoke hanging in a haze over Kotetsu and Izumo’s poker table, Genma’s senbon imbedded in the wood of the table as he drank and laughed about the women he’d fucked and the shinobi he’d killed. It seemed a world away from Kiba, young and fiery Kiba, restless and energetic, faithful to his friends and laughing loudly, uninhibitedly, at their jokes.

This boy next to him may have been his age, but Shikamaru felt years older than him. Shikamaru never drank when he was with the shinobi he worked with, and they knew by now to stop asking him. Shikamaru knew enough about strategy to know that alcohol only worked in his favour when _other people_ drank it. But then again, those were situations in which he was looking for respect or a fuck.

He raised his eyebrows and his sake cup at Kiba, who laughed and did the same. Shikamaru wasn’t looking for either of those things tonight, so maybe he could drink. Maybe drinking just to have fun with a friend, with someone his _own age_ , someone who had known him his whole life and who had nothing but respect and trust for him—maybe that was okay. Maybe it could even be fun. After all, being a strategist and a hedonist, Shikamaru wanted to try everything once.

By the ninth burnt dumpling, Kiba was doubled over laughing, coming up for air only to see Shikamaru’s unimpressed face before he doubled over once more, falling to his knees on the kitchen floor and resting his hands on his thighs as his back shook. After a lengthy discussion about what food to make, Shikamaru had begun telling a story about his grandmother’s dumplings and the army of men she had sustained with them when they came by the door of her home in the woods one day during the great wars. He and Kiba had gotten so excited about the prospect of recreating and eating these prophetic dumplings, sure to feel alive with the strength of warring shinobi, but had been hopeless with the follow-through. Of the few that actually stuck together—the majority spilling their fillings all over the counter, Shikamaru’s pants or the floor—they were now promoted to the frying pan and Shikamaru was absolutely unimpressed to find out that Kiba had turned the stove on ages ago and they all stuck and burnt before he had a chance to pour any water over them.

Done glaring daggers at the boy laughing on the kitchen floor, Shikamaru relented with a smile and experimentally pried one black, sticky dumpling from the pan and tossed it at his friend. Kiba, already sitting on his haunches, placed his palms on the floor and straightened his arms as he leapt up and down, barking like a dog and failing to catch the food in his mouth. They laughed together at the sheer predictability.

As he peeled off another burnt dumpling and tossed it at his friend, Shikamaru thought that being drunk wasn’t as dangerous as he had anticipated. The mundane seemed surprisingly tolerable—almost interesting—more often than not _funny._ His body felt warm and comfortable to be in, and sometimes a limb would get ahead of him—he’d reach to shove Kiba’s shoulder playfully or he’d kick a bottle off the porch to crash down on the lawn below—before his mind caught up to realize what he was doing. But it wasn’t a worry, because his limbs seemed to have his own agenda and interests at heart and they weren’t doing anything he didn’t want them to. In fact, sometimes his body seemed to help him out when he wasn’t even aware he needed it, like carrying him to the bathroom before he realized he did in fact really need to piss.

Shikamaru abandoned the dumplings in the kitchen and passed Kiba to walk into the living room, dropping to the floor to lean his back against the wall and stretch his legs out in front of him. He heard Kiba making dog panting noises loudly from the kitchen and smiled. His eyes fell shut as his vision swim slightly with the sake, and he let his body adjust to the orientation of the room again. He heard Kiba bounding into the room on what sounded like hands and knees, approaching him on the cool slide of the tatami mat underneath them. Suddenly there was a mouth biting _hard_ onto his thigh over the cloth and Shikamaru’s eyes flew open, swatting at Kiba’s head. Kiba grinned and sat up again, swallowing before explaining the dumpling filling (in perfectly good state) left forgotten on Shikamaru’s pants. They laughed and Kiba reached behind him to drag the low table close enough that he could lean his back against it, legs out in front of him, mimicking Shikamaru’s position but directly next to and facing him. His one hand remained on the now-wet spot on Shikamaru’s pants, squinting at it as he scraped with his fingernails to remove the dried food.

Shikamaru asked him about how his team was doing and they spoke noncommittally about their mutual friends and their missions, their couplings, and their promotions. Kiba continued to watch his fingers cleaning the spot on Shikamaru’s pants and Shikamaru’s eyes also fell to the same hand, although watching without really seeing, eyes unfocussed. They lapsed into silence and Shikamaru closed his eyes again, head rolling back to rest against the wall, breathing deeply. A far-away part of his mind wondered how late it must be and the world seemed to correspondingly pause around him, as if every fiber in the living room was hinged only on responding to Shikamaru’s slow breaths in-and-out, in-an-out. The cool, woven grass of the tatami floor under his splayed palms, the sturdy support of the wall at his back, the warm solid hand on his thigh that was no longer moving, the air that passed through the room... Shikamaru slipped into a sort of a dream, imagining himself falling backwards into endless layers of dark, impossibly downy blankets, and as he fell into each one he kept sliding down and down into more and more—

Shikamaru sucked in a sudden gasping breath, as if drowning and just revived, yanked upwards out of the endless blankets into a sudden, acute awareness of his own body. There was a warm, heavy hand kneading his cock over his pants, his cock that was pushing hard and proud up against the fabric, curving to the left. He refused to open his eyes, but it was _so difficult_ not to, and Shikamaru had to actually squeeze them to keep them closed. He suddenly was so tense, not wanting to move a single muscle in his body lest he disturb the still air that seemed to have settled around this bizarre situation.

Shikamaru felt less drunk and less sleepy all of a sudden. There was no doubt about whose hand it was on him—he was positive it was Kiba, his friend Kiba, who he had known his whole life, who he was quite sure was straight, whose sister he was currently fucking, that was rubbing his cock. All this information flashed across Shikamaru’s mind like neon lights, as he was so used to amassing all relevant information in every situation so that he could strategize and find out how to act. But this information didn’t give him any answers about what he should do, as Kiba’s thumb slid apart from his fingers, and Shikamaru could feel the V of Kiba’s thumb and forefinger slide firmly up and down his length, measuring the imprint of it, its width and its length.

Shikamaru was terribly torn about what the right thing to do was. Obviously it felt good, how could it not? But Shikamaru had always, _always_ been so careful in his strategies, in his hedonism, to never fool around with the friends he’d grown up with. He was smart enough to know that his own tastes—tastes for relinquishing control, for coming hard and then leaving when he felt like it—were not compatible with those he was close to, because there were emotions involved. Shikamaru didn’t understand those emotions well, but a distant part of his brain recognized that they were not to be messed with. He didn’t know how to bring together such seemingly separate worlds of his: a word of hedonistic fucks and a world of lifelong friends. But as Kiba’s thumb traced back and forth over the ridge at the head of his cock, Shikamaru’s eyebrows drew together in frustration-pleasure, so very aware that those two worlds were colliding right now whether he wanted them to or not.

_Fuck_. This was one of those times when Shikamaru had to be responsible. He had to take charge because he was the only one who could. He hated these situations. He opened his eyes and looked first at Kiba, sitting across from him and leaning back against the table. The kitchen light was the only one on in the house, and the light fell from behind onto Kiba’s body, throwing the messy ends of his brown hair into overexposed brightness and his face into a darker shadow. His eyes were shut, face expressionless and calm. While his left hand remained on Shikamaru, still exploring—seemingly fixated on, actually—the outline of the head of his cock, Kiba’s right hand was over his own pants, fingers tensed and up in the air as the heel of his palm pushed down rhythmically into his own hardness.

Shikamaru’s mouth went dry after a moment of staring unabashedly and forgetting to swallow—and when he did, it was so loud he was surprised Kiba didn’t open his eyes. Did Kiba still think he was asleep? Maybe it was the sake, making them both fall so easily into that semi-awake state of feeling good and acting impulsively. Shikamaru took a moment to absorb everything in front of him, the soft expression on Kiba’s for-once-peaceful face, the shadow of his long eyelashes on his cheeks just above the tattoos, the corded muscles of his neck descending into his t-shirt and the tops of collarbones, looking so frail in contrast to the compact strength of that body. Shikamaru could see Kiba’s abdomen tense in response to the movements of the boy’s palm, contracting and relaxing erratically. The hand on his own cock felt so warm and heavy and good, and Shikamaru sighed softly. Time to be responsible.

Shikamaru carefully took Kiba’s hand in his own and placed it on the boy’s thigh. He kept his eyes averted because he knew that as soon as he moved, Kiba would look up at him. He stood as quickly as he could considering the alcohol and the head rush, and walked upstairs to the bathroom. He never heard Kiba stand or even move as he left, and that calmed Shikamaru immensely. As he washed his face and found a towel to dry it, relaxing his nerves and his excitement, he considered that maybe this wasn’t going to be as dramatic as two worlds colliding. Maybe this was just the kind of thing that happened when you drank with friends, and in the morning it would be no different.

Shikamaru found his way in the dark of the upstairs landing to Hana’s room and shed his clothes down to his boxers before climbing into the empty bed. He wasn’t going to walk home so late at night, especially not with his own groceries lying around the kitchen, burnt dumplings on the floor and bottles in the backyard. The same sense of responsibility that made Shikamaru end the situation with Kiba before anything started assured him that he couldn’t just leave the house in this state—he would help clean up in the morning. Judging by Kiba’s non-reaction when he left, things would be fine. He felt himself tumble back down into sleep.

When Shikamaru began to stir, there was a finger buried to the first knuckle inside of him. He hummed low in his chest and blearily moved to roll onto his right side. His leg swung into something warm and bony before hair brushed along his thigh to move out of the way and accommodate his new position. By the second knuckle, Shikamaru was rotating his hips into the air, moving his ass back into the finger that felt so warm, so good…

His eyes flew open into the all-encompassing blackness of the room. He tensed, clenching down on that finger. He whispered Hana’s name questioningly, suddenly very aware that she was supposed to be gone for a few more weeks at least. The lack of an answer only made it worse. He let an _oh shit_ drop from his lips before whispering, not as a question this time but as a more resigned statement of fact: _Kiba_. A second finger slid in by way of a response.

Shikamaru had not expected this. And just as he was shaking the sleep from his mind and thinking of how to de-escalate the situation, it hit him.

Those fingers last week, that night… that hadn’t been Hana. Her excuse of absence, the searching look she gave Kiba at the breakfast table, the hand that swatted him away from being able to touch hair or pull the other body up to his—it had been Kiba’s mouth on his cock, Kiba’s fingers inside him.

—Kiba, it was you. Why did you… I didn’t even know it was you—

Kiba’s body slid up against the warm length of Shikamaru’s back, chest brushing his shoulder blades—and just when did he get naked, anyway? His nose pushed aside the hair there, loosened from Shikamaru’s ponytail in sleep, and he breathed warm, hot, moist air into the skin of his neck for a long moment.

—Please, Shika?—

Fingers left him, and despite how conflicted he felt about the situation, Shikamaru’s body was crying out again more-more-oh-god-more and as his ass thrust back, it brushed the velvety smooth skin stretched taught across Kiba’s hard cock. They both groaned in unison into the dark stillness of the bedroom and that seemed to shatter something—something that had been hanging heavy in the air, something like deception or insecurity or fear. Shikamaru reached behind him almost immediately and grasped for Kiba’s cock, taking it in his hand and pumping it, at an awkward angle but in a desperate way to show Kiba—to show _himself_ —that this was real, and he wanted it.

Kiba fucked him so slowly that night. Shikamaru didn’t know what that could be like. They stayed on their sides, his slightly taller frame spooned into the curve of Kiba’s warm body, the heavy width of Kiba’s cock filling him, stretching him, and retreating. Shikamaru could feel the very top of Kiba’s forehead shoved between his shoulder blades, and he knew Kiba was looking down, watching himself. Watching that big cock disappear into tight heat.

This was different for Shikamaru. He’d fucked slowly before, because it was a way of making things that felt good last longer, to draw them out. But Kiba’s palm, which had been splayed out over Shikamaru’s hip, slid upwards and then there were calloused fingertips sliding up and down the dip of his spine, lingering in the hollow dimples of his lower back and up again, tracing spiral patterns. It was so tender, it was so simple, that it threw Shikamaru off completely. In his mind, hedonism was about doing what felt good for yourself and nothing more. This was why he only fucked people with the same philosophy as him. There were countless situations that Shikamaru had removed himself from because it started being about other person wanting more from him; more than Shikamaru was willing to give, more than he _wanted_ to give.

Shikamaru gently pushed back against Kiba as he simultaneously sat up, forcing Kiba onto his back as he sat on the other boy’s cock, facing away. Shikamaru slowly turned, swung a leg over Kiba’s chest to remain full of that hard cock, until he was facing forward, sitting with his knees bent on either side of Kiba’s hips. Their eyes met for the first time that night since Kiba had touched him over his pants. There was nothing but fire and determination and hunger in Kiba’s eyes, but his hands now tracing circles on Shikamaru’s thighs betrayed the depths of this act, the emotion humming underneath all the hormones and adrenaline. Shikamaru began to lift himself up and drop down, and the feel of it was absolutely breathtaking. Taking in exactly as much or as little of that cock as he wanted, angling himself just _there_ to feel good… Kiba started to grin as he noticed how surprised Shikamaru looked about how good it felt to be on top, and one of his hands came up to his mouth. Their eyes remained locked as Kiba licked a long wet line up his palm before wrapping it around Shikamaru’s cock.

That was all he needed. Shikamaru moaned long and low until he ran out of breath, hands flying up to grip his own hair, muscles across his torso tensed for a moment as he breathed in before letting out another long breath laced with the soft sounds of a moan. He fell forward slightly, bracing his hands on Kiba’s stomach amongst the slippery remains of his own orgasm, elbows locked to keep his suddenly heavy body up as Kiba grabbed his hips and thrust up quickly until he found his own release, rasping out— _fuck_ —and then— _Shika_ —as he came and Shikamaru felt all those muscles in Kiba’s stomach, under his hands, clench and relax.  
  
He finally let himself fall forward onto that chest, head coming to rest in the crook of Kiba’s neck, black hair fanned out over the pillow and Kiba’s face. Kiba laughed softly and blew a puff of breath out to move the hair out of his eyes before sliding his arms around the broad expanse of Shikamaru’s shoulders.

Shikamaru felt the sides of his mouth curl up in a smile as he realized something. He had just been on top; he was the one who had _done the work_ , who had _taken control_ instead of relinquishing it, for the first time ever.

Shikamaru was a hedonist and a strategist. And that night, he learned that sometimes fulfilling your own desires also meant making someone else happy.

  
  
END


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